


In Faith We Trust

by NothingAlarming



Category: Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: Bad Taste, Casual Sex, Dubious Consent, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Manipulation, Murder, Past Relationship(s), Sex, referenced foot fetish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-10
Updated: 2018-01-10
Packaged: 2019-03-03 01:01:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13330158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NothingAlarming/pseuds/NothingAlarming
Summary: The Lone Wanderer finds himself in a different wasteland with the same ghosts. He deals with them in his own way.Francesco in a different wormhole. A gift to be continued?





	In Faith We Trust

**Author's Note:**

  * For [beetle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/beetle/gifts).



The scene in Nipton certainly left an impression. As anything else does here, in his nose and lungs. In the silt in the bottom of his shoes and between his toes no matter how he ties his boots off. In towering plumes of smoke that permeate his hair and clothes with the smell of burning tires and flesh. Looking at the silently screaming figures tied to makeshift crosses, he almost misses the spoiled lakewater on the east coast, rot and fish and rotting fish. His dour and disapproving ghoul companion. He knows what Charon would do if he were here to see it. He knows Harkness would skin him for walking down the sorry street that led to the harbingers of such carnage. For putting himself in danger again.

He packs away the thought for later as he stops shy of ten feet in front of the troupe. Before he can utter a word, the leader speaks for them, the smooth timbre of his voice making him jump.

“Don't worry, I won't have you lashed to a cross like the rest of these degenerates. It's useful that you happened by.” He begins. Hardly a comfort to offer, but considering it, Francesco could’ve died at least a hundred other ways by now, be this one not any better or worse than those. He might prefer it to Moriarty. Or Ahzrukal. The leader continues with the cadence of something long practiced in a mirror. His smile is full of knives, making the shape of words that couldn’t escape him if he tried. Francesco’s feet tell him to run but his wit says he should listen obediently. Damn it all, he hasn’t learned a thing, not a goddamned thing.

His heart patters as he nods. The coldness in the Dog Head’s voice only grows colder.

He never saw a snake outside of a picture book until he crawled out of the vault, but he wouldn’t have to, to know what this man is.

“You killed… innocent people?” Francesco blunders out, regretting it immediately as Dog Head corrects him.

“Innocent?” He scoffs, his sneer reminds Francesco of the way a wild dog pulls up it’s lips. “Hardly.”

Oh , he thinks dumbly. Numbly.

The Dog Head Man takes a step forward and stops, flourishing his hands to speak. “Cowardly, though. They outnumbered us, yet not once did they try to resist.” He grimaces with so much drama, like this is all a play he’s acting for. The bodies, props, dolls. “They stood and watched as their fellows were butchered, crucified, and burned. One by one.”

Francesco blinks for what feels like the first time since he arrived. Somehow it’s not due to shock, just a ragged sense of familiarity, and perhaps that’s the shocking thing. An old monster in a new suit. He should know of all people, sweat rolling in his palms; fear is a helluva drug.

The man probably would’ve continued without him, but he humors him for whatever fucked up reason.

“None of them did anything?”

The man grins, his companions standing in a tight line behind him like toy soldiers.

“They stood and hoped their turn would not come. Each cared only for himself. Even as their ‘loved ones’ were dragged screaming to their deaths.”

“Turn?” He asks. He isn’t sure if he really wants to know, but then, he was sent here to find out.

“For a pittance, the town agreed to lead those it had sheltered into a trap. Only when I sprang it did they realize they were caught inside it, too.” He wetted his lips, the gleam of the sweat beaded on visible to Francesco at this distance. So he is human. Somehow that’s worse. “We herded them to the center of town. I told them their sins, the foremost being disloyalty. I told them that when Legionaries are disloyal, some are punished, the others made to watch. And I announced the lottery.” He pauses to smile again briefly before dropping it again. “Each clutched his ticket, hoping it would set him free. Even as the last few remained, they did nothing.”

Francesco tries to imagine it. The fear in their eyes as the line to the chopping block grew shorter. The helplessness. Then he tries not to imagine it.

He swallows, blinks again.

“Why here? Why them?” Why? No ‘why’ could ever be enough, but his mouth says what it wants when his heart pounds like this, when his head buzzes and tries to float off with the rest of him.

Francesco briefly wonders if this be enough of a favor to get him some food tonight. And then he goes numb again. Like his senses hit a flat line and all his focuses tunnel in on this man with a dog pelt. The empty eyes of it watching him.

“Nipton was a wicked place,” His conviction in the words cutting like a knife. “Debased and corrupt. It served all comers, so long as they paid. Profligate troops, Powder Gangers, men of the Legion such as myself - the people here didn't care. It was a town of whores.”

He nods, his neck stiff. “I see.” He says, the vibration more clear to him than the words, useless as they are. He thinks of Rivet City. That could be any town. Any town at all. What would that make the Strip? What would happen to the Strip?

He must find out one way or another but this. This. He’s had enough of this.

“Thanks.” He says dumbly. “I’ll spread the word.”

Dog Head frowns, maybe disappointed he didn’t get to gas-bag on as long. Francesco didn’t care as he turned around, hand on his pistol, rubbing like a talisman more than a weapon. He counted his steps, trying to focus on the giant men shaking hands over the NCR Outpost.

Trying not to think about how it will all crumble down.

 

* * *

 

He wasn’t sure initially what to do about Benny. The whole incident seemed so far in the distant past the moment he woke up in Doc Mitchell’s home and a securitron started following him around. It was just a thing in the list of things that just fucking happened in the wasteland. And Francesco has honestly stopped questioning it at this point, though the possibility of whether this was all a cyclic fever dream, a kind of purgatory after stepping out of the vault, has definitely crossed his mind more than once.

When he first sees Benny again, deer-in-the-headlights surprise and that same ugly ass suit, he honestly isn’t sure if he even wants to kill him anymore. He handed three different weapons to the handsome older guy at the front with more firepower than what he was murdered with. What was the point? He was nothing on his own. Would be nothing, he thought.

Benny greets him with a cautious look, each practiced word so shaky and loaded with prewar slang even Butch would be embarrassed to hear him, it certainly did nothing to hide his fear. Who wouldn’t be afraid. Then again it’s just something that happens these days right?

Francesco scrambles for a hook, an anything. Tips his head back as he keeps his face blank.

“I don’t want any trouble now, baby doll.” Benny says, the shine on his forehead becoming visible now. His smile is too big. Francesco stops by a table to lean on as he fishes out his matches and cigarettes.

“There won’t be.” Francesco says coolly.

There’s a pause where he can sense Benny swallowing.

“I’ll be damned, I can’t believe it’s you.”

He quirks the corner of his mouth. “It’s me.” Smoothly he tilts his head toward the bar, fully aware of how it displays the scars Benny gave him. “Talk over drinks?”

Benny’s fear turns to annoyance in one snap, a defense mechanism, or a knee-jerk reaction to a shady proposition, both. Wrong angle maybe, but he’ll work it as long as he can.

“What’s there to discuss, baby? I’d rather stay in plain sight where I’m safe if you catch my drift.” He looks down at him seriously from his place at the top on the steps, two Chairmen standing like sentinels on either side of him.

Francesco doesn’t flinch, just reaches into his pocket, watching Benny’s eyes follow his hand.

“I have something of yours,” He starts. “And you have something of mine.” He sees the flip lighter flash in the light as he pulls it out, turns it in his hand. He holds it toward Benny.

Benny’s brows raise and set in an odd downward arc. “To think I deemed that flintbox my lucky charm. Oh, the irony.” He huffs a laugh as he takes it to examine and slides it inside his jacket where it hits something metal in the pocket. Interesting.

“Kind of sloppy to leave a trail, but I know you’re a big player in this game.” Francesco licks his lips. “Was hoping to discuss a business partnership.”

Benny smiles in that way a parent smiles at their child for being naïve. “Real slick, doll, but what do I have that you want?”

Francesco smiles fully, showing teeth. “You have my chip, and a good head for getting things done, even if it didn’t work. I want to prove that I can be useful to you.”

Benny smirks. “Color me intrigued, pussycat, but what do you have that I can’t get myself.”

He doesn’t hesitate. “I can get into the Lucky 38.”

Benny’s brows shoot up. “That was you? Oh, shit.” He looks to the side, drawing maps of thought with his eyes across the slot machines and roulette wheels placed around the room.

“So.” Francesco starts again, Benny looks back to him, hand over mouth. “That drink?”

“Ease off the gas a little, you’ll get your fifteen minutes of fame with me, baby, just wait.” He gestures for Francesco to come close. “Tell you what, follow me to the thirteenth floor with my friends and we’ll talk.”

Francesco frowns and narrows his eyes. “Drop the guards or we don’t talk.” He purses his mouth. “I didn’t follow the man who tried to kill me across the desert just to be denied. If that chip does what I think it does, I want in.”

Benny’s eyes widen a bit, but he nods. “If that's what it takes to win your trust, that's what it takes. Follow me.” He gives a signal to the guys around him by showing the flat of his palm and pointing straight down. Without another word he leads him into a hallway with metal elevator doors and presses the up button.

Benny turns to Francesco just as the door dings cheerfully, up and down. Francesco keeps his posture this side of slack, leaning back instead of forward, smiling easily as he looks Benny from head to toe in return.

He turns away as they step inside, looking at the door.

“I hope you don’t think I’m not armed.” Benny says simply.

“I hope it doesn’t come to that.” Francesco leans against the back the elevator somewhat loosely. “The chip isn’t all I want, you know."

Benny just laughs. “Ya don’t say.”

“Mmm.” He pauses. "You never gave your name back in Goodsprings. Had to ask around, you know.”

Benny cocks his head, turning smoothly on his heel.

“You making a pass at me, baby? ‘Cause I'm out of your league.”

“Is it so wrong to want someone who shot you in the head?” He muses out loud.

Francesco has to stop himself from laughing at the expression that ghosted over Benny’s face just then. Just keeps his little smile steady as he watches Benny consider him fully.

“That bullet scramble your egg, sweetheart? Or have you always been so hot for cats that try to off ya?”

“I don’t know, I think it made us kinda special. You, me, and that grave: I have a new beginning because of you.” He laughs. “I’ve always had a thing for bad boys, and you’re definitely the worst.”

Benny laughs, nervously. He blinks, raises his brows, but he’s clearly thinking about it. Of course, big head like his can’t say no to a good time. What’s the worst that can happen to him anyway? “Can’t argue with that, pussycat, but tell ya what, we hit my floor we’ll be doing the business now and the business talk after, ya dig?”

Francesco grins wider, running a hand up Benny’s sleeve. He nods, and the elevator dings thirteen.

 

His breathing is even as he considers it. The panic stopped soon after Benny fell asleep, after the one-sided affair that ended with him laughing nervously as he left to clean the come off of his feet. He can't say he expected that. Or the chokehold that passed for cuddling after. Silently he draws himself up and after finding Benny's pants, slips out the lighter within to light his cigarette. Benny is a stomach sleeper, so that should make this next part easy. Should. Casual sex is fine. This and the foot thing, two things he's never done before. God what a thought, he huffs.

Halfway through his smoke he's holding the garrote in his hands. It's really just a piece of old electric cable, but sold as such it would do the job. Duct tape grips on each end.

He hopes Benny is a heavy sleeper, and tries not to think about he came with a sigh, how cuddly and how intimate he was after sex. The praise and the kisses. He breathes out, smoke falling out of his mouth. This is just another thing that happens.

He slips the garrote under his pillow swiftly 'til it's just pressed under his neck.  Business. He releases the garotte to pull Benny’s arms by each of his sides, so if he wakes he can jump atop him and stop the struggling. Taking hold of it again, his leg is poised to move just in case he needs to trap him but oddly it takes ten seconds of pressure for his body to rouse, even then only weakly. Francesco sits atop his body to hold him still, and that’s where he started to struggle.

“Please, stop.” Francesco whispers as Benny starts to make... sounds. Choking whispers that don’t form words but try to. Should he feel so guilty about someone who tried to kill him? He isn’t sure. Life for life, life for money, life for change. There has been more lost for less, he supposes.

Then it’s done, and Benny stops making any sound at all.

He pulls out another smoke out and lights it with Benny’s lighter. His lighter now, he thought as the golden-orange glow lit up his face for all of a second. He takes Maria out as well and places it on the bed to take as he redresses.

He leaves the room a little heavier.

 

He has his guns back, precious as life as he pockets them again. Swank winks at him, looking just as weary as Francesco felt. He doesn’t have the interest or energy to reciprocate at the moment. He walks out the Chairmen-guarded door right into a man in a too-clean suit and hat. Apologizes as soon as his mouth functions too, but when the man speaks he freezes up. He couldn’t miss that voice anywhere.

“I am Vulpes Inculta of Caesar’s Legion. I serve my master as the greatest of his Frumentarii.” He starts, face hard and blank and… exposed. Without goggles and dog pelt he can see him properly, all angles and hard blank malice. Dark eyes. He holds out his hand and Francesco’s takes it promptly before thinking. It’s a coin of melted old metal, he can tell in the way it sits in his hands heavy one side and not the other. “This is the mark of Caesar. This represents Caesar’s interest in you and your abilities. Look south to Cottonwood Cove if you’re interested, just show them the mark.”

He looks at the gleam of the coin first before speaking, but still says something stupid. “It’s you again.”

“Yes, we’ve met.” A pause. “You were quite timid.” His eyes don’t change but they seem to glimmer.

“I didn’t know what to say to a man like you.” Francesco says. Vulpes raises an eyebrow. “You made quite a mark.” He feels his face heat up without thinking. Vulpes purses his lips a bit but remains silent. Francesco takes Vulpes’ hand in his for a moment, not a hand shake nor an intimate hold. He doesn’t know what it is, but he takes it and considers it nonetheless before releasing it with a look.

The concrete is garishly bright to him at this time of day, the shadows of other casinos help him focus on the sharp face in front of him.

He nods again.

 

* * *

 

Making it this far is a mystery of itself. Francesco doesn’t like the Legion, doesn’t believe in them, but being afraid of something can go a long way for lack of belief. That and… he swallows as he tries not to think about it. He looks to Vulpes. He’s done a lot of looking at Vulpes. He’s still in his “profligate disguise,” his pressed suit and tie. Away on business. Coincidentally it’s always reminded him of this photo of a prewar funeral he saw years and years ago in the vault, made him privately think of Vulpes as an omen of death. He wonders if Vulpes would enjoy hearing that, but there are other matters at hand now.

Vulpes is still as he hears the news, that Caesar is dying. He doesn’t say much, sure that his will is steel that he doesn’t so much as make a sound. Francesco strains not to reach for the smokes he pilfered in through the gate; such bad habits aren’t appreciated here. He watches Vulpes watching the ground, looking for once, at a loss. Francesco bites his lip, thinking of other bad habits.

Francesco is timid, as Vulpes said. He snatches his wrist to recieve a sour look for it as they stumble into a separate tent. Then his mouth hit his and Francesco can’t breathe.

“What a--” Vulpes starts, face flushed and a bit angry.

“Profligate act, I know.” Francesco finishes.

“I…” Vulpes starts, but doesn’t finish. He’s never one to start talking without knowing what he’s saying. The irritation falls away from his face in favor of something foreign and soft, confused. He looks around them quickly to ensure they are truly alone here.

Francesco kisses him again. Vulpes makes a sound into his mouth.

“What are you doing?” Vulpes asks urgently as they pull away.

Francesco takes his lapel in hand as Vulpes purses his brows, “I don’t know.” He admits, “I don’t know what else to do for our Lord, but after avenging him it won’t matter.” Vulpes’ face softened just the slightest, just for that he kissed him in turn. He honestly can’t believe someone like Vulpes had such a sentimental string in his body, even if it was for Caesar. “I just know I want you, and that’s all there is.” Anything to make this kiss okay, make it mean something. Maybe it was truth, maybe not, but he knew what felt good, and at that moment that’s all that mattered to him. Meaning to the frivolous and fast, the dangerous.

He thinks of the package drops in red rock full of tightly packed medical supplies, the scraps of paper with Vulpes’ decisive handwriting instructed to burn after reading. He held them to his chest first before obeying. He wasn’t sure why, still isn’t.

He felt something. In old football leather turned Roman armor, in trust, in false hope. Bomb powder, eventually. In this moment, on Vulpes’ mouth. Plastic bright and unwholesome, a finality and a new beginning in one motion. Warm.


End file.
